


Here Storms the Bride

by ZeugmaofOZ



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Humor, Minor Violence, Multi, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeugmaofOZ/pseuds/ZeugmaofOZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke & company always knew that Guard Captain Aveline was a handful, but that was even before she had a wedding to plan. Suddenly, Hawke faces her toughest elite boss battle yet: Bridezilla!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dealmaker

_Author's Note:  
All Dragon Age 2 characters are copyright (c) BioWare – many thanks to them for creating a complex and engaging fantasy world and allowing me to play in it's sandbox._

  
“I'll give you ten silver,”

“Sorry,”

“Fifteen, then.”

“Nope.”

“Twenty. I'll even pay for the dress. My final offer.”

“Give up, Varric,” sighs Isabela. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I. Don't. Do. Weddings.”

“Come on, Rivaini! It'll be fun.”

“Fun? That woman utterly despises me. And since when is getting gussied up in front of a bunch of stuffy noblemen just to watch her get all loveydovey and vow...” Isabela cringes, “eternal fidelity...to one man, fun? It's like, The Anti-Fun. Ugh!”

“You'll be missing one helluva party...” Varric insists, but she ignores him.

“I'm sure I'm allergic to the mere mention of it. Look,” she says, pointing down at her tanned thigh, “I'm breaking out in hives,”

“Those aren't hives, Rivaini.”

“They're not?” Isabela wrinkles her nose. “Then what are they?”

“Something you probably want Blondie to have a look at. I'm sure he's got a salve for it.”

“There's no way I'm touching that after everyone else has,” Anders declares, joining them in Varric's suite at The Hanged Man.

Marian Hawke enters just behind him, a mug of ale in her hand. “Who's touching what, now?”

“A nerve, Hawke,” the dwarf snickers wryly, “I think I just touched a nerve,” He points a gloved thumb at Isabela, slouched in her chair beside him. “Can't say I didn't try, though,” he turns his attention back to his drink.

“I'm sorry, Hawke,” Isabela stubbornly crosses her arms, “but I won't do it. Maybe for you. But there's no way in The Void I'll ever be one of Aveline's sodding bridesmaids,”

Hawke puts down her ale, which signals that she means business. “Clearly, Varric has been going about this entirely the wrong way.”

The dwarf's ears perk up at the sound of his name. He's got to hear this. “I'm telling you, it's a lost cause,”

“I'll give you just two reasons, Isabela,”

“There's nothing even you can say that could change my mind,” she sticks out her pierced bottom lip.

Hawke smirks, counting off one finger at a time. “Hen Night. Open Bar.”

“I'm in.”


	2. Risky Business

  
“You really think she'll go for that?”

“Who says she has to know?” Varric murmurs, covering his mouth.

“You're taking your life into your hands...” Anders replies.

“What can I say? I like to live dangerously,”

“What are you two muttering about back there?” asks Aveline, as they trudge up a sandy slope along the Wounded Coast.

“Isn't the coast lovely this time of year?”

“Anders?” his name sounding more like a growl in the guardswoman's voice as she slows down to walk beside them. “You two aren't by any chance...entertaining the idea of throwing Donnic a Stag Party, are you?”

“What? Why're you looking at me?” the mage holds his hands up. “I'm perfectly harmless, you know. I'm spoken for. By the most beautiful, most lethal woman in all of Thedas, I might add,” he declares loudly in the direction of their leader.

“Damn straight,” Hawke says over her shoulder.

Anders flashes a charming grin. “See? I've got the Champion of Kirkwall vouching for me,”

“'Vouching', huh, Blondie?” Varric smirks, “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

“Varric.” Aveline changes the direction of her growl. “Answer the question.”

“You should loosen that headband of yours, Guard Captain,” the dwarf says reassuringly, “All we're planning is a quiet night of Wicked Grace at the elf's, a few drinks...”

“Really?” Anders and Aveline ask at the same time – the former with surprise, and the latter with suspicion.

“Why not at The Hanged Man like usual?”

“It's a special occasion. I figured Donnic would appreciate a place with a little class for a change,”

“Class?” Anders snorts, “That dump?”

“Haven't we become all hoity-toity since moving out of the sewers and in with Hawke. It's a mansion, Blondie. The ultimate bachelor pad.”

“More like the ultimate health hazard. He's left a sodding corpse to rot in the front hall,”

“Meh,” the dwarf shrugs, “Nothing I don't already pay the Cleaners to handle,”

“It's a dead body, for Maker's sake! And it's only been there for what? Two years? It's disgusting,”

“Why am I hearing this from a man who can't even pick up his own dirty socks?” Hawke reminds Anders.

“I hardly think it's worth comparing, my love,”

“Have you smelled your socks lately?”

“Hey,” Aveline suddenly turns to Varric, eyes narrowed, “What did you mean by 'the Cleaners'?”


	3. Uncharted Territory

  
Hawke's pretty sure that if she weren't the Champion of Kirkwall, they would have been kicked out by now. After all, it's not as though they were the usual sort of clientele for this kind of establishment. If anyone heard tell of it, they'd think it was one of Varric's jokes: a guard, a pirate and an elf walked into a bridal shop...  
“How about this one?” she holds up a sleeveless silk gown with a draped bodice.

“Too revealing.”

“You could use a bit of revealing,” suggests Isabela.

“I'll not take fashion advice from a slattern,” Aveline hisses.

Isabela smirks. “On second thought, I take that back – you don't want to scare the guests,”

“Who invited you, anyway?”  
“I did.” Hawke replies, “I thought it might be fun to do something girly together for a change,” She resumes rifling through more dresses, then pauses wistfully. “Bethany would have loved it,”

“Merrill seems to be enjoying herself,”

“Where'd she go? She was right here a minute ago...”

Merrill emerges from between some dresses carrying a frilly concoction of ruffles and lace in her arms. “Ooh, choose this!”

“Ugh,” Aveline shudders. “Too frou-frou!”

“I like it,” the elf demurs, cradling the dress. “It's so fluffy. It's like holding a piece of cloud! You would just float down the aisle,”

“It's a piece of something, all right,” Aveline mutters.

Isabela throws the Guard Captain a look before turning to Merrill, “I'm afraid that won't work, kitten,” she says, “Unless you're thinking of a storm cloud,” She ducks to avoid the swat of Aveline's backhand. “Or a tornado,” Isabela calls out from her protected position behind a display mannequin.

The Orlesian seamstress clears her throat. She's a stoic middle-aged woman who hasn't taken her humourless eyes off them since they entered.

Hawke gets the hint. “Remember, girls, I'm footing the bill for dresses, not damage,”

“Have we...decided yet, Serah, or do you wish further assistance?” the dressmaker urges Aveline, willing to say just about anything to hurry them on their way.

The Guard Captain sighs. “I think I need a little more time,”

Isabela doesn't bother to stifle a groan. They've only been through nearly every gown in the shop. Twice. And that was an hour ago.

“Why don't you just get married in your formal guard uniform?” Hawke offers. “You look pretty sharp in it. Dresses really aren't your thing anyway, right?”

“Absolutely not. Donnic's marrying Aveline the woman, not Aveline the Captain of the City Guard. It's enough of a challenge compartmentalizing private life and duty as it is.”

“Fair enough. No mixing business with pleasure, I suppose,”

“I doubt she mixes pleasure with anyth-,” Isabela's muttering is interrupted by a sharp jab in the ribs from Hawke.

“Eyes on the prize, Isabela. Eyes on the prize.” Hawke says between her teeth, briefly wondering to herself if it was a mistake to suggest that Isabela throw Aveline's Hen Party. But she shakes off the worry. What could possibly go wrong?  
“Shopkeep, don't you have anything else?” Aveline asks hopefully, “Something in the back, perhaps?”

“I'm afraid not, Serah,”

“What about that one?” she notices a plain linen shift on a wooden dress form. “That would be perfect. Simple, elegant, no frills. Just the way I like it.”

“That, Serah, is a slip,”

“Oh.” Aveline stammers, face suddenly as red as her headband. “I-I see.” She glances nervously over at Isabela, hoping the other woman didn't notice. Thankfully, the pirate has taken her forked tongue over to the other side of the shop to chat with Merrill.

“Hawke,” Aveline hisses, “What am I going to do? I'm completely in over my head here,” she starts pacing in agitation.

“Relax, Aveline.”

“Hawke. There's only two weeks left.”

“Don't worry. We'll figure it out,”

“'Figure it out?' Like we did with the Varterral?”

“Hey, we killed it, didn't we?”

Aveline raises an eyebrow.

“Eventually...”

The Guard Captain sucks in a breath.

“Okay, so Anders did. Mostly.” Hawke adds quickly. “Don't look at me like that. It was good for him. I keep saying he needs to do more cardio.”


	4. Masterplan

“That woman is driving me insane!” Hawke storms into the library, slamming the door behind her.

Anders looks up from his writing with a smile. “Trouble in paradise?”

“'I just want a simple ceremony,' she said. 'Nothing fancy,' she said. Ha! Why can't she make up her bloody mind, already? Just when I thought we were all set, she springs this on me,” she flails her hands in the air.

“You know,” he points the end of his quill at her, “I vaguely recall saying something along the lines of 'I told you so'...”

Hawke sighs and plops down in an armchair. “But I'm the sodding maid of honour, for Maker's sake.”

Anders gets up from the desk to join her by the fire. He gives her a hug. “And I've no doubt that you're doing a bang up job of it, love,”

“Tell that to her,” she pouts, marginally consoled by his nuzzling of her neck and the equally welcome massage her tight shoulders are receiving.

“For every last-minute change Aveline makes, I think a new knot appears in your back,”

Hawke groans, “I don't doubt it,”

“What's happened now?”

“She's decided that she doesn't want the ceremony at the Viscount's Keep after all,”

“Isn't the wedding just a few days away?”

“Yup,” Hawke crosses her arms and slumps back into her chair.

“So where's it being held?”

“Someplace closer to home,” she mutters. There's a knock at the door. “Come in,”

“We need to talk,” Isabela bursts in, followed by Merrill. “It's about The Bridal Commander.”

They notice Anders. “Oh, sorry – hope we weren't interrupting anything. So maybe we were hoping to interrupt a little something...okay, so maybe I was,” Isabela smirks.

“I'll leave you ladies to your battle – er, business,” Anders grins, standing up to plant a kiss on Hawke's forehead before leaving, “I'd say 'stay out of trouble', but...you know.”

“Hawke, if I hear from that woman just one more time how 'everything must be absolutely perfect', I am going to perfectly gut her, roast her on a spit and serve her up to the guests for dinner myself.”

“You too, huh?”

“Have you seen what she's making us wear?”

“I think the dresses are lovely,” Merrill says.

Hawke and Isabela look at each other. “That bad, huh?” breathes Hawke, suddenly regretting that she gave Aveline the gold in advance and told her to “go to town” on their gowns. Whatever town the Guard Captain had gone to, it must have been a downright hideous one.

“But Aveline says the style is all the rage in Orlais,” insists Merrill.

“That's also what Anders says about his blighted coat,”

“I like his coat...”

“I know, kitten,” Isabela sighs, “but you have to admit, our dresses...the bows are as big as sodding shields,”

“Perhaps that was the idea,” Hawke chuckles, internally cringing at the thought of there being bows at all. “Ever the pragmatist, our Aveline.”

“Well, it was just one in a deluge of damn bad ideas. She's even told Merrill that we've got to wear these shoes - ”

“But I just can't walk in those things, Hawke. The ones with the...spiky soles. I wobble all over the place. I feel like I'm going to trip over my own feet,”

“She's making us wear heels?” Hawke gasps in disbelief, imagining the elf – already not used to wearing shoes of any kind whatsoever – and the potential for disaster. “Andraste's pyre, does she want to kill us?” Her voice lowers to a mutter, “I never could get the hang of those blighted things,”

“You know what the punchline is, Hawke?” Isabela's posture shifts aggressively, “After all the hours of running around I did for her from shop to bleeding shop, she's got the nerve to tell me that she doesn't want me anywhere near her Hen Party! She's even talking about scrapping the whole night out altogether. And to think, it was that and the free swill that dragged me into all this in the first place! I want those hours of my life back,”

She shakes her head with a loud, tired sigh. “No, what I really want is a good, stiff drink.” She saunters over to a side table where Hawke keeps a flask of wine and pours each of them a glass. “But this'll do for now,”

The women sit together in thoughtful silence for a while, Merrill and Hawke sipping their wine and Isabela quickly knocking hers back like a shot and pouring herself a second, then a third.

“What can we really do about it?” Hawke wonders aloud, sighing half-resignedly into her glass.

“Something. Anything. Enough's enough already,”

“You know,” muses Merrill, finishing off her wine, “I think it's rather sad. It's as though Aveline's forgotten what it took to get her and Donnic together in the first place,”

“The ungrateful wench,” Isabela says gruffly.

“That's it!” Hawke snaps her fingers, her face brightening.

“What? Call her an ungrateful wench to her face?” asks a confused Isabela. “I do that sort of thing all the time,”

“No – Merrill, you're brilliant!”

“I am?” the elf says in surprise.

“Hawke, you've had less than a glass of wine. It's way too early to start sounding rotting mad,”

“Trust me, Isabela – I'm not mad,” Hawke replies. “Besides, you know what they say: 'don't get mad, get even.'”

“Huh. Now what in the world, I wonder, could you be planning?” a slow curl creeps across Isabela's lips.

“Whatever it is, can I help, too?” Merrill asks hopefully.

Hawke grins. “Of course. But for now, just you leave it to me.”


	5. Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

“I don't know how you managed it, Serah Hawke.” Guardswoman Brennan shakes her hand before joining an uncommonly chipper, uncommonly drunk Aveline playing Wicked Grace with Merrill and Lady Elegant.

“Another, barkeep!” The Guard Captain calls out laughing, her red hair tousled and her cheeks flushed. She's been playing terribly, blubbering all the while about how madly in love she is with Donnic. Judging by the look on Merrill's now beet-red face, the Dalish elf is hearing a little more than she bargained for.

“Neither do I,” Hawke replies as she leans on the bar at The Blooming Rose, hiding her smile with a mug of ale.

She can't think of the last time she's seen either of the guardswomen out of uniform and she's glad they've all left their armour at home tonight. It's the night before the wedding and they're out to have some fun - not fight - for a change.

She wonders what the men are up to. Somehow, she doubts that they've settled on just a quiet night of cards for Donnic's Stag.

“Whiskey – make it a double,” Isabela swaggers over and gestures to the bartender. She gives Hawke a gleeful squeeze. “All right, Hawke. Spill it. I want to know every last gory detail.”

“How do you know she didn't just come willingly?”

Isabela arches her eyebrows.

“Okay, let's just say I had a little help...”

“Come on, sweetcheeks. Don't hold out on me now,” Isabela pouts, reaching for her drink. “She was practically flying by the time you and Merrill brought her in here. Damn, I can't even believe she's here,”

“If you must know, Merrill and I borrowed a little something from Anders' grimoire. Did you know there's actually a spell that lowers inhibitions? Oh, the wonders of magic,”

“That's genius,” she bursts out with a loud cackle, “So how do you know Anders doesn't use it on you?”

“Because he doesn't need to,” grins Hawke. “Which isn't to say there aren't any other...fun spells he knows.” She lets her smug expression sink in with Isabela before continuing.

“Anyway, from there on, it was easy enough getting her primed on some wine at home.”

“That's all?”

“After that, I told her we needed to come here for an...investigation,”

“I shall never doubt you again,” declares Isabela, suddenly being tugged on the arm by a very eager-looking Jethann, “Ooh – be right back,” her voice lowers to a husky growl, “he and the other boys are planning a little performance for the bride-to-be,” she winks, disappearing with the elf behind a door, leaving Hawke little question as to what the rehearsal might consist of and the extent of Isabela's participation.

That woman never could look a gift whore in the mouth, Hawke thinks to herself. Though it probably would be a good idea - one can only imagine what you'd find there. She cringes, remembering Anders once saying how half the clientele here are also patients of his clinic.

“Messere Hawke,” Madam Lusine comes over. “Might I have a word?”

Hawke nods, following the proprietress to a corner. “Is there a problem?”

“You requested that we reserve the finest ale for you. I must apologize – it seems that much of it has already been consumed by the party in the back room,” she gestures to a nearby door. From behind it, they can hear muffled cries of merriment. “They have been here for some time now and my staff neglected to inform me,”

“That's a shame,”

“Well, as it happens, there is one keg left...”

“Excellent – we'll have that, then,”

“Unfortunately, the other party insists upon having it and are willing to pay no less than a sovereign to do so,”

“I see,” Hawke smiles at the proprietress' shrewd business sense, “Well then, please kindly inform them that the Champion of Kirkwall is willing to pay double their price,”

That should solve that. A little name-dropping never hurts. And neither does being rich.

“I shall see what I can do, Champion,” Lusine smiles. She disappears behind the back room door. Hawke can hear the noise quiet down for a brief moment, followed by Lusine's muffled voice, and then loud peals of laughter coming from behind the door. Hmph. Tough bunch. So that's the way it's going to be, is it?

Madam Lusine returns, an apologetic look on her face. “I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid you've been outbid, Messere Hawke.”

“Really?” She can't believe it.

“But they would like to speak with you,”

“Very well,” Hawke replies, shrugging. She's not sure what to expect from this group. Good thing she brought her knives. You never know.

She pushes open the door and is surprised to hear her name cried loudly and cheerfully by familiar  voices. She laughs, realizing that she's being greeted by the smiles and raised mugs of Donnic and her own male companions.

“Varric. I should have known,” Hawke shakes her head.

“Sorry, Hawke,” The dwarf strides over. “If we'd known you'd be here, we would have saved you a keg or two. You drive a mean bargain, though.”

“Hey, lover,” Anders sets down his hand of cards to run over and put his arms around her waist, “I didn't expect to see you here,”

“That makes two of us,” she replies, planting a kiss on his lips. “Behaving yourself?” She casts a jealous eye around the room of dancing, scantily-clad women. “I was wondering where all the female employees went...”

“Not to worry, Hawke,” Varric laughs. “All Blondie's been doing is losing at Diamondback. Nothing new. Though we're still trying to convince him to show us his infamous electricity trick...”

“Nice try, dwarf,” declares Anders. “Those days are over. Just one woman reaps the benefit of that particular talent now,” he gives Hawke her favourite, crooked grin. It sends delightful shivers up her spine just thinking about it.

“Get a room, you two!” growls Fenris from the card table, two elven prostitutes draped and giggling on either side of his chair.

“We just might,” Anders calls back. He turns to Hawke and Varric again. “You'd think he'd be in a better mood after all the coin he's won from me tonight,”

“Glad to see Donnic having fun,” Hawke watches the guardsman laugh and clink mugs with Fenris.

“Hey – does this mean Aveline's here, too?”

“Yup. Along with Merrill, Isabela, Brennan and Elegant,”

“Ooh, I smell a good story coming on,” Varric rubs his hands together.

“Maybe later. I should head back. I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on our blushing bride - they'll be wondering where I am. Oh – and uh, do try to simmer down a little. We probably shouldn't let you-know-who know you're here.”

“You're the boss,”

“Have fun, boys!” Hawke waves.

“You, too,” Anders swats her on the bottom as she turns. “But not too much fun,”

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” warns Varric.

“That doesn't leave very many options, does it?” she chuckles.

Hawke is slipping back through the door when she nearly runs headlong into Aveline herself. The Captain of the City Guard is the giddiest, most uncoordinated that Hawke has ever seen her.

“Oh, hullo Hawke,” Aveline says cheerfully. She's wavering, holding on to the wall to steady her. “Is that the privy?” she tries to peek inside.

“Uh,” Hawke quickly shuts the door behind her, “Nope. I think it's on the other side,”

“Funny, I thought I heard Donnic's voice,”

“Really? I didn't hear a thing.”

Isabela practically pounces on them both. “Where'd you get off to, Hawke? You're missing all the fun,”

Aveline snorts, “'Get off to'...oh, Maker, that's a good one,” she clutches her belly and slaps Isabela hard on the back.

The other two women look at each other in amusement. It'll be an interesting night.


	6. Ladies' Lights Out

“You can't be serious,” groans Hawke, suddenly wishing they had worn their armour after all. She stands in the middle of Hightown, supporting a half-conscious Aveline. Merrill is retching behind a crate while a whiskey-soaked Isabela holds back the elf's hair.

“There, there, kitten,” Isabela rubs Merrill's back gently. “It's not so bad,”

“No,” Hawke says, “It's worse.” They are surrounded by at least a dozen masked, female raiders. Another dozen archers stand with bows drawn at the ready on the rooftops above them. “You know, it's because of people like you that indecent citizens like us can't crawl home safely at night.”

“And which knitting circle are you lovely ladies from?” Isabela unsheathes her blades.

“We are the Invisible Sisters,” declares one masked archer, arrow poised in her direction.

Merrill bursts out in an uncontrollable fit of giggles, “But we can see you,” She wipes her mouth on the back of her sleeve and grabs hold of her staff. Unsteady on her feet, she tries to assume a stance but ends up leaning on the staff for support instead. She points at the nearest masked assassin and starts giggling again, “I seeeeee you...”

“We know who you are, Champion,” comes another voice, this time from behind. “And you're weakened and outnumbered by far,”

Aveline raises her head groggily and tries to draw her sword. “Let me deal with this band of bitches, Hawke,”

Suddenly, the Guard Captain's knees buckle under her and she slumps forward – her weight falling against Hawke as she passes out onto the ground. A wave of laughter rises up from among their assailants.

“Oh, crap,” Hawke mutters. “I guess you're tanking, Isabela,”

“Who, me? I can't do more than one at a time.”

“That's not what they said at The Rose,” snickers Hawke.

“Somehow I don't think that's what these ones want, sweetness,”

“What do you want from us?” Hawke asks, certain that if these women had really wished it, the four of them would be dead by now.

“You have been a thorn in our side, Champion,” one of the archers steps forward and pulls off her mask to reveal a beautiful, if stern-looking, woman with auburn hair. “I am the Gracious Gillian Winger and this is my army.”

“Gracious,” replies Hawke, feigning surprise. “Whatever shall we do?”

“The women of Kirkwall have suffered under the oppressive rule of men for long enough,” Winger continues. “We intend to change that,”

“Are you completely batty?” Isabela stares. “The sodding Grand Cleric's a woman, for crying out loud. The whole bleeding Chantry's led by women,”

“Isn't Knight-Commander Meredith female, too?” asks Merrill. “On second thought...”

“Incidentally, so's the Champion of Kirkwall, last time she checked inside her smalls.” Hawke gently sets Aveline against a nearby barrel and readies her own bow. “What's your point, Gillian Winger?”

“My point, Champion,” says Winger, aiming an arrow squarely at Hawke's head, “is: join us, or die,”

Hawke sighs. “I thought you might say that,”

“I have a point, too,” a familiar male voice announces.

As the women all turn to look in the direction of the unexpected speaker, a flurry of crossbow bolts rains down through the air, plummeting to the ground around them along with half a dozen impaled archers from the rooftops.

“Actually, I have several,” Varric continues, cocking back Bianca for a second volley.

Merrill, Hawke and Isabela grin as a magical chain of lightning jolts through each of the remaining archers.

“There! Electricity. Happy now?” hollers Anders, fingertips sparking. He winks at Hawke.

Fenris charges through with a guttural battle cry, longsword slicing a wide arc around him and within moments, more Invisible Sisters fall to his blade.

Isabela puts her hands on her hips. “Blighted elf, you hardly left any for us,”

“She who hesitates...” his lips form a smirk as her eyes devour his glowing, lyrium-branded skin, now glistening in sweat.

Only the leader, Gillian Winger remains, clutching her arrow-pierced side. She lunges at Hawke, face contorted in anger. Hawke draws one of her daggers.

“And the moral of the story is,” Hawke says as she stabs Winger through the heart, “not all men are bad. Some can even be quite useful,”


	7. Guard Captain, Transform!

“Ugh,” Aveline groans, rubbing her temples. “Why does my head hurt so bad?”

“We got attacked last night in Hightown,” Hawke replies, pulling the gown over her friend's head. “You passed out,”

“Me?” the Guard Captain exclaims, then winces at the sound of her own voice, which seems a little too loud to her sensitive ears. “I would never just pass out in a fight,”

“Well, you did.”

“I should write up a report, nonetheless,”

“Aveline. It's your wedding day.”

“Oh, right! Why aren't you wearing the dress I got you?” she asks, squinting at Hawke's floor-length gown of blood-red silk. It fits like a glove and drapes low in the back, specially designed to knock Anders' dirty old socks off. Or so Hawke fully intends.

She smiles. “You changed your mind again. Don't you remember?”

“What in The Void happened last night?”

“You had fun, and we got ambushed by raiders. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Hawke finishes lacing up the back of Aveline's gown. Orana hands over a floral headpiece and a couple of pins.

“There!” Hawke finally declares as she turns the bride by the shoulders to face the mirror.

Aveline gasps at her own reflection. It's the first time she's seen herself in her wedding dress: a simple, elegant sheath of emerald green satin that plays off the highlights in her hair and is fitted to hug her every curve before flaring out slightly from the knees to the floor. Her long, copper tresses have been braided behind each ear and the remainder allowed to fall in loose ringlets about her shoulders. In place of her usual headband is a wreath of Ferelden ivy.

If Hawke didn't know any better, she would have sworn it was a painting - not of a hardened warrior, but a beautiful lady, complete with delicate, blushing cheeks and tears beginning to dot her eyelashes. She and Orana smile at each other and stare into the mirror for a few moments, admiring their handiwork.

“Oh!” exclaims Hawke, “I almost forgot,” she reaches down and hands the bride the bouquet, tied with a copper ribbon.  

“Marigolds?” Aveline asks, eyes growing wide.

“Copper is hard and marigolds are soft,” Hawke replies, fighting an increasingly difficult battle with her own urge to smirk.


	8. A Real Nice Night for an Evening

Hawke and Aveline descend the staircase into the main hall of the Hawke estate. The noise of the small crowd of guests seated below lulls into whispers, punctuated only by the occasional gasp as each of their friends lay eyes upon the bride for the first time.

Orana strums a lilting melody on her lute as Aveline slowly walks down the hall towards the waiting Donnic and Grand Cleric Elthina. Even Hawke's male companions are murmuring to themselves in disbelief at how positively radiant the Guard Captain looks.

“Five silver says Donnic soils his smalls,” Varric chuckles under his breath, adjusting the crushed velvet lapel of an expensive brocade version of his leather duster, complete with coat tails.

Anders shakes his head and covers his lips, “Ten says he outright faints,”

Fenris just glares at the two of them and sweeps a heavy, embroidered cloak aside to bow reverently as Aveline passes by.

When Aveline nears the front of the room, her eyes meet Donnic's and for a moment she forgets all else as she sees her comrade-in-arms, turned friend, turned lover, standing before her as her future husband. After the blight, after Wesley, after everything she'd been through with Hawke and her friends, she wonders if life could possibly get any better than this.

Donnic, for his part, is literally breathless upon seeing her. Shocked by how utterly stunning his bride looks, he simply forgets how to breathe. A moment later, his eyes roll back into their sockets and his legs turn to jelly. He falls back onto a startled Fenris, crushing his best man's marigold boutonniere in the process.  

Anders nudges Varric, confident that ten silver should be more than enough to buy himself a new tabby cat. “Don't count your kittens, Blondie,” the dwarf replies. “The night is young,”

The bride leans over the groom, patting his cheek gently to rouse him and offers him her arm.

“Stiff upper lip, soldier,” Aveline murmurs to Donnic with an amused grin as she helps him to his feet again.

“Yes, ma'am,” he chuckles, provoking a round of laughter from the guests.

Hawke glances about the room to seek out Anders, who has traded in his musty feathered coat for a distinguished-looking set of black robes embossed with a scrolling, silver edging. As the bride and groom say their vows, his eyes find hers and Hawke has difficulty meeting the intensity of her lover's stare.

During the Grand Cleric's blessing, Aveline suddenly notices that Isabela, Merrill, and Hawke have lined up beside her. None of them are wearing the bridesmaid gowns she chose for them. Isabela is in a black corset over a slinky blue number with a slit cut higher up the thigh than decency permits, baring far more than her usual long leather boots. Merrill has opted for an ethereal, grey lace tunic of a dress and conspicuously bare feet.

When the bride begins to eye each of them with a disapproving glare, each bridesmaid produces from behind her back a small sheaf of wheat as a bouquet, accompanied by broad, knowing smiles. Aveline's memory is jarred to the point of spinning. A sheaf of wheat and...they _wouldn't_.

The Grand Cleric is asking for the rings. Hawke nods. There are nervous whispers and murmurs coming from the guests.

“What's that smell?” Guardswoman Brennan hisses.

“Enchantment!”

Everyone turns towards the back of the room.

Waddling down the aisle and grinning from ear to ear is Sandal, the young dwarf proudly leading a train of three small goats. Each goat has a copper ribbon bow around its neck, upon two of which, Aveline and Donnic's gold wedding bands are tied.

“Is this some sort of Ferelden custom?” Seneschal Bran asks, a look of both disgust and confusion on his face.

“I believe it is a dowry tradition of some kind,” Fenris matter-of-factly states in a deadpan voice.

One of the goats bleats loudly in seeming agreement, and Hawke and her companions break out in conspiratorial laughter. All, of course, except one. It's now Aveline who is trying not to faint.


	9. Epilogue

“You've really outdone yourself this time, Orana,” Anders pats his full stomach, commending the cook on the extravagant wedding feast she prepared just hours earlier. In all the time he's lived there, he's never seen her and Bodahn move as fast as they did when Hawke told them that they'd be hosting the wedding at the estate.  

“Rub your belly for luck?” Hawke nervously whispers to him, the glass of mead shaking slightly in her hand as she stands up to deliver her toast to the bride.

“Knock 'em dead,” He gives her arm an encouraging squeeze. “I promise to revive them...after I've had a good, long nap,” the healer grins.

\---

“Now where in The Void did my best man run off to?” Donnic asks, arm linked in Aveline's as he scans the guests gathered in Hawke's combatives room, temporarily converted into a ballroom for the occasion. Fenris, it seems, is nowhere to be found.

"Perhaps the ceremony was more moving than that moody elf could bear," chuckles Anders, “He's probably off in a corner somewhere drying his eyes,”

\---

“Mistress Hawke?” Bodahn draws the lady of the house aside, voice lowered. “Apologies for interrupting, but there is a rather...sketchy-looking Antivan man at the door enquiring after your friend, Serah Isabela. Have you seen her?”

Hawke shakes her head. So Isabela's disappeared as well. Coincidence? Most likely.

“Shall I ask him to leave?” the dwarf asks.

“Please do.”

\---

Merrill giggles in delight at how the hem of her skirt twirls out when she spins.  
   
“You look lovely, Daisy,” Varric beams. “Of course, you'd look lovely even if you were wearing a paper bag,” He bows deeply and offers to dance.

\---

“So,” Anders murmurs into Hawke's ear, their bodies slowly swaying together to the sound of the string quartet's ballad, “Does all this wedding stuff get you in the mood?”

“Hmm? What mood?”

“The marriage mood, of course. What did you think I was talking about? Tsk, tsk. Naughty girl,” he says through the corner of his mouth.

“Depends who's doing the asking,” Hawke replies. “You, or Justice.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does while polygamy is illegal in the Free Marches,” she grins.

\---

“Did Seneschal Bran go home already?” Aveline asks, “I was hoping to thank him for coming,”

Orana wavers, wringing her hands. A blush spreads from her cheeks to the ends of her pointy elven ears. “I'm afraid so, Messere Aveline,”

“He didn't give a reason for leaving so soon, did he?”

“Um,” the elf clears her throat, “Not exactly. But I think he may have...stepped in something the goats left behind before I had a chance to clean up the hall.”

“Enchantment!” Sandal blurts out with glee.  

\---

Aveline steps into the women's privy next to Hawke's ballroom and tidies her hair in the mirror. When she sits down on one of the commodes to relieve herself, she hears a slight movement from behind one of the adjacent privacy screens in the corner of the room.

“Hawke, is that you?”

“Yes,”

Aveline sighs, feeling awkward. But she figures that this place is as good as any to say it and get it over with. “You know, I've been meaning to talk to you about that...that thing you did tonight with the marigolds, the wheat and the goats.”

“Mmm,”

“At first, I was sodding pissed off at you, but then I realized that I probably deserved all that. I guess I've been a real bitch over the last couple of weeks, haven't I?”

“Oh, yes...”

“Well, I wanted to finally...apologize. Donnic and I wouldn't be together today if it weren't for you and everyone else putting up with my nonsense. You've been an amazing friend. The fact is, today has been the most beautiful day of my life and I've got you to thank for it. For everything, really.”

Aveline hears a gasp in reply. “Is it really so surprising to hear me say sorry for a change?” she asks, then laughs bitterly. “Maybe so. Well, I'm sorry.”

“Yes!”

“There's no need to celebrate,” she mutters.

“Yes!” gasps Hawke even louder.

Aveline knits her brows together. “Hawke, are you all-”

Suddenly, there's a loud crash as all of the privacy screens topple over like dominoes, followed by Isabela, her legs wrapped around a sweaty, half-naked Fenris as they lie sprawled together on the privy floor.

Panting, they look up at Aveline, who is still seated on the commode with her wedding dress hiked up at her waist and her smalls pushed down around her ankles.

Throughout the Hawke estate, everyone hears the bride scream.


End file.
